No One Has To Know
by Sleepy Lotus
Summary: Elizabeth questions the silver "piece of eight" in Jack's hair on Rumrunner's island. Written for the prompt: no one has to know. Its Sparrabeth, of course.
For princesspenelopenerfherder, according to the Tumblr prompt: no one has to know.

I meant this to be a drabble, but it grew into a ficlet, then a full-fledged one-shot all of its own accord. I blame Jack and Lizzy, who just will not shut up, no matter _how many_ times we visit Rumrunner's Island. :)

 **No One Has To Know**

Fire shadows danced upon the sand. Elizabeth Swann found herself trapped upon a desert island with a legend of a pirate—in close quarters she was finding he was actually only a man. Initial disappointment faded quickly for this truth; she liked a Jack Sparrow with mortal faults more than the immaterial promise of a fairy tale.

A fable she could dream of, but a man she could _touch_.

 _This_ knowledge became increasingly more dangerous with every passing minute.

They had danced like mad pagans about that fire just to her right, chanted sea-bandit ballads at the top of their lungs as though to invoke a spell. She wasn't sure if she felt the aftereffects of that magic thrumming beneath her skin now, or simply the consequence of her first imbibing in the libation of the sugarcane.

Jack Sparrow lounged beside her with the easy grace of a sleepy leopard, relaxed in everything but a watchful gaze that missed nothing. There was a predator's gleam in his eye to accompany that trickster's twinkle; his immunity to the vile drink was a weapon in his arsenal she should have calculated.

"Piece of eight for your thoughts, Lizzy," he offered, his clever fingers drawing patterns in the sand between them.

"You haven't got a ha-penny upon you, much less a piece of eight," she taunted, more venom in her tone than was necessary, but only because she felt as though much more than the revelation of her considerations was at stake.

He fingered the silver tasseled token bound into his hair absently, his gaze distant for just a moment. "You might be surprised, love. But no matter. I actually already know what troubles you." The latter he delivered with a sly little smile that quickened her pulse, and Elizabeth narrowly resisted the impulse to slap him.

Or kiss him.

 _Oh dear._

"I very much doubt that, Captain Sparrow." She attempted to put some distance between them with the formality, but seemed to only stoke the fire of his vanity, gold gleaming in his widened smile. Yet something irresistible whispered in her ear, and before she could stop herself she said, "Though you may humor yourself, in attempting to guess."

There was a spark of delight in his onyx orbs; pleased that she would dare to play his game. Brave or foolish: at this juncture of the evening she could hardly tell the difference.

"You are wondering what it might be like if I kissed you," he brazenly volunteered. "You're afraid you might like it."

Elizabeth affected disgust, though secretly her heart quickened two-fold, her blood pounding in her veins. She should have slapped him. She should have leapt up from her place on the sand and stormed off to find somewhere else to spend the night. She didn't need the fire; the Caribbean evening was balmy enough for comfort.

Before she could retort Jack finished for her, "No worries, though, love. Captain Jack Sparrow does not take advantage of lost little virgins." He lay back in the sand, propping an arm behind his head. He made the very picture of a heathen deity in repose, the flames dancing in his eyes. "Your virtue is safe—at least as safe as you wish to keep it."

She despised him in that moment, embarrassment a hot flush that painted her cheeks red. She hoped he couldn't see it in the shadows, though by the glint in his eye she suspected he knew.

He knew _everything_ , all too well.

The urge surged in her again to do him bodily harm, her fist clenching beside her. With a sliding glance beneath half-closed lids Jack seemed to make note of it, and Elizabeth decided she would settle for a little hair-pulling instead. "Then I suppose I shall have my piece of eight," she huffed, reaching for the talisman in his raven's wing mane.

Quick as a mongoose, he caught her wrist, tugging her so that she fell on top of him. " _Ah, ah_ , dearie, _that_ deal was for _your_ volunteering of your musings. And I fear I cannot surrender that _particular_ piece of eight to your greedy little hands. It is far more valuable than its weight in silver." His grip upon her shifted, his thumb caressing her palm in a way that sent a frisson of... _something_ through her core.

She should have bolted from her position upon him. Should have shoved him away with admonishment, and ran for the safety of the trees.

She didn't.

She _couldn't._

Jack's body was warm and firm beneath hers, a lithe divan of whipcord muscle upon which to lounge, and she found an indescribable pleasure in this new discovery of unchartered territory. Jack represented all the undrawn portions of the map of her limited experience of life.

 _Here, there be monsters._

She found she _wanted_ to fill in the blank gaps of her knowledge of men, _just a little._

Elizabeth turned a skeptical eye to the bauble in question, pretending that Jack's fingers laced with hers was not playing _hell_ with her sanity. "Tis not even a real piece of eight," she observed. "Tis a Mohammedan trinket; the script looks like Arabic."

She read surprise in Jack's eyes; a bare moment's flash of wonder. " _My_ , Lizzy. And what do _you_ know of Eastern scripts and Mohammedan silver?"

"Hardly enough to fill a thimble," she confessed, her gaze inadvertently drawn to his lips as she spoke. All too aware, Jack's dexterous fingers slipped into her hair next, kneading her gently at the base of her skull. _Heavens,_ but that felt _good_. For a brief moment she allowed herself to close her eyes, a sound escaping her that sounded _damningly_ like a purr.

"We can't do this, Jack," she sighed as she felt him shift beneath her, his face rising to meet hers.

"Just a kiss, darlin'," he whispered, beguiling and yet a note of something surprisingly vulnerable in his tone. "No one has to know."

" _I'll_ know."

He smiled above her mouth, his lips a breath from hers. "All part of the fun, love."

"This is all just a game to you, isn't it? Just another chapter in the Legend of Captain Jack Sparrow."

His smile widened, those wicked lips _so close_ to hers. "Who knows? Perhaps I am just a page in _your_ book, Elizabeth Swann. He—or _she_ who lives tells the story."

"Then what if we both die here?"

"All the more reason to kiss me now, while we have our strength and the world is fine." He stroked her hair, tucking a salt-kinked lock of gold behind her ear. " _Very_ fine," he appraised, his eyes softening.

And so she did, pressing her lips to his lightly, a tentative taste. For all the time she spent imagining what it might be like to kiss a man, she really didn't know what to do. Jack was all too happy to show her, his tongue sliding between her lips, slowly coaxing her mouth to open to him. He palmed her cheek in his hand, his sea-roughened palm impossibly gentle upon her.

He was not harsh or demanding, all the things she expected a pirate to be. Jack possessed a beguiling charm, far more dangerous than brute strength or a sharp blade. Had he used the latter against her she could have fought him, could have _hated_ him. But _this_ : magic called with the flash of a smile and conjurer's sleight of hand—she could _love_ him for that, and the thought was as startling as was enticing.

Breathless, Elizabeth jerked back from him, suddenly sitting up in the sand.

What did she think she was _doing,_ kissing a pirate on this deserted island all alone?

She expected a taunting jester's grin, but this time his smile was gentle, the barest curve of lips that contained a hint of sadness. It mercilessly squeezed her heart, and she pressed her hand to her chest as though to relieve the ache. Before she could say anything more, accuse him of sorcery or ask a question too dangerous to answer, Jack rolled on his side, giving her his back.

"Go to sleep, love," he sighed, his body on _fire_ from head to… _well_. "Big day tomorrow."

Unsteady in her own skin, Elizabeth lay back, her eyes fixed upon the spinning stars above. Her hand remained upon her chest, her heartbeat a frantic drumroll beneath her fingers.

 _Oh my._

She had to do _something_ to get them off this island, she resolved. Otherwise…

She looked to the pirate who lay so close beside her, yet so far away, appraising the shape of his broad shoulders and long torso, his slender hips leading to long legs curled in the sand.

Otherwise, he would pillage her heart, without even firing a shot.

 _Bloody pirate_.

There was a surprising lack of venom in the thought.

Despite her own wise advice of caution, she scooted closer to Jack, curling her svelte body alongside his. For a moment he stiffened, before relaxing back against her. Their curves fit with the alarming perfection of a dovetail joint, his delectably round derriere nestling in the cradle of her hips, her long legs tangling with his. He stroked the bottoms of her feet with his toes, sending a thrill up her legs and spine. Her arm slipped over his waist, holding him to her, and he captured her hand in his, pressing it to his heart.

" _No one has to know, love_ ," he whispered again, and she realized he was promising not to ruin her with boastful claims of how he'd had the governor's daughter all alone on Black Sam's Spit, and what an _adventurous_ lass she proved to be.

 _He who lives tells the story._

In that moment she _desperately_ wanted to survive this seemingly innocuous but all too deadly little island.

She didn't know what came over her, when she murmured against his broad back, " _To hell with them, anyway."_

Elizabeth felt him shudder with what she assumed was laughter, and then his breathing deepened, sleep finally claiming the trickster captain. She followed him soon after, her sleeping mind painting pictures of heathen gold and the promise in a midnight-eyed pirate captain's smile.


End file.
